The Reborn

by Lin Anderson

  Slater’s nicotine craving eventually won. He muttered something about needing the toilet and absented himself. They were at the final stages anyway and knew little more than they had surmised in the incident tent, the fibres Rhona had lifted from the body being the only possible material link with Kira’s assailant.

  Slater’s boiler suit lay discarded in the changing room, his overcoat gone from the peg. Rhona stripped hers off and checked her phone. There were no messages. She did a quick mental calculation. Court proceedings could be delayed for any number of reasons. Janice had promised to call as soon as she had any word.

  Outside, the air was sharp with frost. She remembered leaving the High Court with McNab after the Mary Healey case on a day like this. They’d celebrated the outcome with coffee at the Central Café, one of the few surviving old-fashioned Italian cafés that had served Glasgow well. She turned in that direction.

  She was relieved to find no sign of Rocco, the proprietor. She didn’t know if she could cope if he mentioned McNab. She slid alongside a red formica table that held the usual accompaniments for Rocco’s famous fish suppers: salt, vinegar and sauce. Spurning the menu card, she ordered a large mug of black coffee, while questioning her sanity in coming here. She had a sense of starting to live her life backwards, a sure sign of growing old, or going mad. McNab would have made fun of her for it.

  They had sat at this table the last time, McNab looking half dead through lack of sleep and worry. She’d smelt whisky on his breath and known that as soon as she left, he would supplement his coffee with more.

  If he were sitting opposite her now, they would be discussing the latest case. She tried to imagine what his take on it would be, what questions he would ask. McNab had a habit of getting right to the point.

  ‘Why was she in the Hall of Mirrors on her own?’ The voice in her head was as clear as if he were there. ‘Kids would go in there together for a laugh, but not by themselves.’

  It was such an obvious question. Rhona hoped Slater had thought to ask it.

  6

  The strategy meeting had been called for mid-afternoon, leaving time for the post-mortem to establish the cause of death. That gave her a couple of hours in the lab before she had to show her face again. Her repeated checks on her mobile had been futile. Rhona resisted attempting to call Janice. If she was in court, her phone would be switched off anyway.

  She settled down to some work, relishing the silence. Kira’s case wasn’t the only one in the running at the moment, but it was the most serious and therefore the one occupying her mind. Knife crime was fairly common in Glasgow. The analysis of stab wounds, and the knives used to inflict them, was well documented. But Kira’s death was unique. Rhona could find no record of anything similar happening in the UK in her computer searches.

  Her examination of the body had produced three interesting pieces of evidence. The hair or fibre from under the fingernail, the scrawled mirror writing done with what she suspected was a make-up pencil, and a deposit of something she believed might have come from the handle of the knife the perpetrator had wielded.

  Professional knives such as those used in slaughterhouses and in hunting required handles that weren’t slippery even when covered in blood. Shark skin provided the perfect material for this. Sharply pointed placoid scales, also known as dermal teeth or dentricles, gave the shark’s skin the feeling of sandpaper.

  Magnified under an electron microscope, the unique shape of the scales she’d found was clearly visible. The perpetrator had deposited microscopic dentricles on the body as they performed the Caesarean. The police hadn’t recovered the weapon but at least they knew a bit more about it. She took a micrograph of the enhanced image to show at the meeting, then examined the fibre.

  The detailed analysis and comparison of fibre evidence fell into three or four sequential phases. First came microscopy to compare samples and establish type, followed by microspectrophotometry (MSP) to record a colour graph. Thin layer chromotography (TLC) could then be used to strip out the dye using an appropriate mixture of solvents, and for man-made fibres, the use of infrared spectroscopy to confirm the chemical identity already established from the fibre’s appearance under the microscope.

  Most work on hairs was to do with comparison. Hairs turned up everywhere, inside balaclavas and stocking masks, on clothing, in bedding and often on blunt weapons. Matching of hairs could place an accused at the scene of crime, just as a victim’s hairs found on an accused provided a link between them.

  Human and animal hairs were essentially the same. Both consisted of an inner core, known as the medulla. This was surrounded by a cortex enclosed in a thin outer layer called the cuticle. The easiest way to imagine the form was to use the image of a pencil, where the lead was the medulla, the wood the cortex and the paint the cuticle.

  The item under the microscope was not man-made fibre, despite its bright red colour, as she had first thought. It was a hair dyed bright red. When present in human hairs, the medulla was amorphous in appearance, the width generally less than one-third the overall diameter of the hair shaft. Very fine human hair and naturally blonde hair contained no medulla at all. The hair she was viewing under the microscope had a distinctive medulla and had come from an animal. Which animal, Rhona had no idea.

  She didn’t hear the door open, so engrossed was she in her study. The suited figure was behind her before she registered its presence.

  ‘Chrissy!’ Rhona stood up and threw her arms around her visitor. ‘What are you doing here?’

  ‘Sam’s at the university showing Michael off to anyone in the Faculty of Medicine who might be remotely interested, so I thought I’d pop in and see you.’

  Above the mask, Chrissy’s eyes searched hers.

  ‘I heard about the girl in the park. What have you got?’

  Rhona waved her to the microscope.

  Chrissy settled herself on the stool and took a long look. ‘A hair, but not human.’

  ‘I agree.’

  ‘Even though it’s bright red.’

  Rhona was about to remind Chrissy when her own hair had been a similar colour.

  Chrissy got in first. ‘I liked my hair that colour. I’d do it again but I might scare wee Michael.’

  Rhona laughed. ‘I miss you.’

  ‘Not for much longer.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘I’m coming back.’

  ‘But it’s too soon.’

  ‘My mum’s desperate to look after her first grandchild, even if he is black.’ She grinned. ‘Hey, now the USA has a black President, it’s cool to be black.’

  ‘And your dad?’

  ‘Mum put up with a lot over the years, but when the old bastard tried to stop her seeing the baby, she threw him out.’

  Chrissy was the only girl in a family of wayward boys ruled by a domineering father. One son had broken the trend, Patrick, Chrissy’s favourite. He’d left, hiding his homosexuality from his parents. Chrissy had covered for him, desperate that her father and brothers shouldn’t find out and deny her mother access to her oldest son.

  ‘Well, it would be great to have you back,’ said Rhona.

  ‘So tell me about the funfair.’

  When Rhona had finished, Chrissy shook her head in disbelief. ‘It sounds like an episode of Buffy the Vampire Slayer.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘I got hooked on the box set of Buffy when I was breastfeeding. My God, can that girl kick ass. And the boyfriend, Angel, is hot.’

  ‘Didn’t you get enough witchcraft on the torso case?’

  Chrissy had met Sam while on that case. It was his Nigerian mother who’d alerted them to the practices of a witchdoctor in Kano, helping them solve it.

  Chrissy was deep in thought, and not about witchcraft. ‘The hair’s quite long, could it have come from a wig?’

  Wig manufacturers often threaded animal and human hair, then dyed it to the required colour. It was a possibility.

  ‘I could do a bit of r
esearch,’ she suggested. ‘Let you get on with something else.’

  ‘Oh my God!’ Rhona glanced at the clock. ‘I’m due at the strategy meeting in ten minutes. Slater will drip sarcasm if I’m late.’

  ‘Bill’s not back?’

  ‘His court case was scheduled for today. I haven’t heard the outcome yet.’

  The meeting had already begun. Rhona slipped in at the back. Roy’s footage of the locus was on the big screen, Kira’s mutilated body reflected in the surrounding mirrors of the maze. Slater was in full flow, giving a rundown of their call to the scene via a 999 by the victim’s boyfriend, David Murdoch, who said he’d found her.

  The way Slater said this suggested he was of the ‘first witness, first suspect’ school of thought.

  ‘The victim was last seen by David and two other friends, Alexandra Stewart-Smith and Owen Hegarty, sometime after eleven o’clock.’ Slater’s loaded pronunciation of the names suggested his interpretation of the difference in their social class. ‘According to all three of them, Kira said she was going for candyfloss and never returned. The ticket seller on the mirror maze confirms she did enter alone, he thought about half past eleven, and seemed anxious to get inside. He also said the tented structure could be accessed other than by the entrance and exit by slipping under the canvas. David’s clothes have been sent to forensics for analysis. As yet there is no sign of the baby.’

  When it was Rhona’s turn, she showed them the enhanced image of the dentricles.

  ‘I lifted these from the wound site. They’re dentricles, microscopic but easily recognisable as traces from shark skin. Butchers’ knives and hunting knives often have shark skin handles, to stop hands slipping when covered in blood.’

  They absorbed that information and she moved on to the hair.

  ‘It was lodged under the victim’s fingernail which might indicate a struggle with her attacker. Because of the colour and length and the fact it’s not human, we think it might have come from a wig.’

  ‘You’re suggesting the killer wore a bright red wig?’ drawled Slater.

  ‘I’m not suggesting anything, merely relating what we have at this moment.’

  Detective Superintendent Sutherland intervened. ‘Our main focus must be the missing baby. What’s happening about that?’

  ‘We’re still searching the park and the Kelvin waterway, but no luck so far.’

  ‘The baby’s father?’

  ‘David Murdoch maintains he isn’t the father and Dr MacLeod says she can prove if that’s true. So far, the parents either aren’t saying or don’t know.’

  ‘Foetal abduction is unusual, to say the least. We need to know more about the psychology behind this. See if Professor Pirie is available.’

  Slater’s face turned puce. If he thought he had all but obliterated the old team with McNab’s death, it looked as though he was wrong. Rhona masked a smile. If she couldn’t have McNab or Bill, she would settle for Magnus.

  Slater appeared about to argue when a cheer from the incident room stopped him in his tracks. When Rhona had passed through earlier, the atmosphere had been subdued. A major incident involved a lot of organisation, many man hours, especially where the death also involved a missing child.

  The roar and excited babble might mean the baby had been found. Slater, for all his girth, was quick on his feet. He threw open the door, ready to admonish the crowd.

  Rhona caught a glimpse of Janice’s jubilant face and knew immediately the cause for celebration. Slater barked his order for silence, then demanded to know what the hell was going on.

  It was Janice who answered. ‘Detective Inspector Wilson has been cleared of the assault charge, sir.’

  Slater’s expression never changed. ‘I’m delighted to hear it. Now, can we get back to work? We have a missing baby, in case you’ve forgotten.’

  The return to desks was accompanied by subdued but delighted murmurs. Nothing Slater said or did could diminish the importance of the news to the men and women in that room.

  7

  Rhona was shocked by how much Bill had aged in the weeks since she’d last seen him. She had never really considered his age before, even when she’d attended his fiftieth birthday party at the Jazz Club.

  The last twelve months had hit him hard. Firstly there had been Margaret’s cancer diagnosis, then the assault on his daughter, Lisa, McNab’s murder and finally the court case. You didn’t have to be fifty to look old after a string of bad luck like that.

  She had gone in search of him after the meeting, suspecting he was somewhere in the building, avoiding jubilant colleagues and awaiting Sutherland’s interview call.

  She had finally persuaded Angus, the Duty Sergeant, to tell her where he was.

  ‘He doesn’t want to talk to anyone before he sees the Super.’

  ‘I’ll pretend I found him all on my own.’

  Angus gave her a reluctant nod. ‘He’s in number six.’

  The corridor was silent and empty. Bill had chosen the most far-flung interview room. No chance of anyone spotting him unless they walked the full length of the corridor. She wondered if he had heard the whoop of joy that had gone up on the announcement of his acquittal. Such an outburst of approbation would have embarrassed him. He would also believe it to be undeserved; Rhona knew him well enough to know that. Bill had been raised with the belief that whatever you were asked to do, you did it properly. That went for everything, from the mundane to the important. And in respect of McNab and the Gravedigger case, he believed he had not fulfilled that obligation, nor his duty.

  When she opened the door, he was seated at the table, a full mug of congealing coffee in front of him. She wanted to go over and hug him, but didn’t.

  The last time they’d met was shortly after McNab’s funeral. They’d sat in Bill’s local, and Rhona had tried unashamedly to stop Bill leaving the police force. Back then, they’d had no idea what the outcome of the assault charge would be. It was their individual guilt and despair over Michael’s death that had dominated the interchange.

  He looked up as she entered.

  ‘Sergeant Willis refused to tell me where you were, so I came looking.’

  ‘You’re the first one to make it through his cordon.’ He gave her the ghost of a smile. ‘Thank you.’

  ‘For what?’

  ‘Your forensic evidence.’

  ‘You should never have said you did it.’

  ‘McNab reacted the way he did because of me. An assault charge would have finished his career.’

  Everything he said was true. McNab was known for his ill-controlled temper. An assault conviction would have probably resulted in the end of his CID career.

  ‘McNab would never have let it go.’ She didn’t add, if he were still alive.

  Bill acknowledged that with a brief nod.

  Both of them knew that it wasn’t over yet. The disciplinary procedure would kick in now the court case had ended. Bill had disobeyed a direct order from a superior, which had resulted in an assault. There were mitigating circumstances and he was a respected officer, but whatever decision Sutherland made, would Bill accept it and carry on?

  Before she could ask, the door opened and Angus stuck his head round.

  ‘The Super will see you now, Sir.’

  Bill rose, his expression stony. If persuasion couldn’t make him stay, maybe the possibility of revenge would.

  She put her hand on his arm.

  ‘Word is that Nikolai Kalinin is back in the UK.’

  He gave her a half smile, acknowledging her last-ditch attempt, then he was gone.

  Since Bill’s suspension, Slater had done little to pursue McNab’s killers. The investigation into Russian mob activities in Glasgow had been his baby. He’d put all the team’s effort into trying to nail Kalinin, and failed. Slater didn’t like to be associated with failure, so he’d mothballed the case, using the excuse that McNab’s killers had left the country. Intelligence suggested Kalinin had returned to Russia or was lying l
ow on the Mediterranean, managing gambling interests there. With the best will in the world, the long arm of Scots law didn’t stretch that far.

  But the death of McNab was like a canker at the heart of Bill’s team. The DI’s acquittal would ease some of the sense of injustice, but it wasn’t enough.

  She chose to return to the lab via the park. The frenetic police activity of the past forty-eight hours had dwindled to a team of SOCOs still scouring the interior of the mirror maze, and a couple of uniforms conducting door to door enquiries with the inhabitants of the motor homes.

  The funfair was back in business, or would be in the evening, apart from the Hall of Mirrors. According to the news, the murder had brought in the crowds, keen to look at the scene of such a unique and ghoulish crime. The fact that the baby had not yet been found, dead or alive, only serving to feed the frenzy of interest.

  Past the site of the funfair, the park achieved normality. Open spaces, wooded river banks, cycle tracks and a rollerblading structure. Close by was an enclosed children’s playground. It housed a climbing frame and slide and a small roundabout, as well as two sets of swings, one with toddler-type seats. The play area was deserted. No chatting mums, no children. Maybe it was the time of day or maybe it was because of Kira and the missing baby.

  As Rhona approached, a girl appeared, opened the gate and went inside. She took a seat on one of the swings and began to pull herself upwards.

  Drawing nearer, she realised the girl was pregnant. And she was just a girl, not much older, at a guess, than Kira. As Rhona passed, a young male vaulted the low railing and called to the girl; the name sounded like ‘Mel’. The girl slowed the swing down and jumped to the ground before walking to meet him. They embraced.

  Without getting closer Rhona couldn’t be sure, but the young man, his arms now about the girl, looked very like the photo she’d seen in the strategy meeting of David Murdoch, the dead girl’s boyfriend. If it was him, it suggested David was friendly with more than one pregnant teenager.